Infectious
by Choi Junhong
Summary: "It itches, it seethes, it festers and breathes..." *SYOT OPEN- 21/24 spots taken*
1. Prologue

**_Infectious_**

**_The Thirty-Eighth Hunger Games_**

* * *

Shapes wrought by pain

Each hollow engraved with a name

My name, yours?

All of us, we stand

But lifeless, slumped over inside coffins.

The grave holds the answer

Six feet down

And still wrecked with hollow sobs.

* * *

**The Thirty-Seventh Games**

**Celestin Aiba, District 9**

He found it impossible. Breathing now, with the dirt filling his nose as he looked up at the clouded sky of the arena. So close to sunset. So close to the end. He could have won. He knew it. But now, now he was trapped.

The hole began to file off. He was sliding still, as impossible as it seemed, body twisting and bending and stretching to fit the cracks. Skull was being compressed. He was sure blood was leaking from his mouth. Being buried alive...being crushed alive...should have been impossible. But the laughter told him no, it wasn't. And he couldn't even feel his mouth enough to move it. Knowing his fate, it had probably been deformed as well.

His neck...it started with a tug. But now, he was sure, stretched out like that of those yellow animals seen in the history books. Now his whole body...eyes popping from sockets. Being squished, divided, dragged down and down and down...the depths of blackness. Cracks, running red with blood through the exit of a brick wall.

The stuff of nightmares.

For now he was stuck. But for the way his body stretched, he might as well be dead.

* * *

**The Capitol**

**Body Collector/Medical Researcher, Jagannatha Cerdic**

It had been unfeasible to collect all the bodies, but Jagannatha had to admit, they were masterpieces. His eyes lingered on one in particular. A stretched out, lifeless and twisted form who had once been the District 9 male tribute. The indentations of his crushed eye sockets and jumbled mass the possibly had resembled a neck and shoulders were inspiring. Beyond distorted, like a fantasy nightmare. It was perfect.

The head gamemaker for these games had warned him about taking care of the corpses. They had to be returned to the districts, he said. But Jagannatha figured the condition wasn't a big deal. And afterward, he could have the bodies back anyway. He ran his fingers over the burnt flesh of a girl- District 2?- feeling every bump of the charred black skin, bones protruding at odd angles. The thought that these creatures- these mutations- had once been alive was absolutely astounding. How much did it take the human body to break? Strenuous force seemed to work, of course, but these corpses were still in one piece. Dismemberment...that was another category entirely.

Still, he figured, it was better this way. Reanimation wouldn't be too hard with these conditions. And these conditions were perfect for them. For building the mutts. Yes, it was absolutely wonderful. And this arena, from what the gamemaker had provided him...would be insane. Literally.

* * *

_Okay, it's been a long time since I've tried my hand at this SYOT business, possibly because it is so time consuming, and I have a lot of schoolwork. (Don't expect frequent updates, because I couldn't possibly do it.) However, I am re-entering the arena (haha) and would appreciate it if you could all take some time to submit. Form is on my profile, and by PM only. No reservations._


	2. District One Reapings

Ah, okay, figured I should finally start on this thing. Still need tributes, so send 'em in, people! Sorry for the length (or, rather, lack thereof). I've never been particularly good at working long chapters. Partly because by nature I am a poet, not a story writer. Anyway. Enjoy.

Thanks to ASimpleMind94 for Blush, and to Mon Devou for Alexander (didn't have any family for you, so I tried to improvise).

Oh, and also- reviews would be rather lovely. I'm not crazy like some people are about them, but I find it nice when it seems as though people actually read my writing. You can even PM me if you'd rather. Thanks.

* * *

**District 1: Symbol of Your Own Device**

* * *

_**Blush DeMontford, 17, District 1 Female**_

I walk on the border between turbulence and order. It is a chaotic, endless mess that seems to tear away my inner skin...but not my outer. Never my outer. No, the façade will not leave. And it threatens me, but I've gotten used to it. It is my life, after all. And like the lives of others, there are constants.

Half-empty bed.

Money on the nightstand.

A different room.

A different house.

A different man.

But there is always the same dress, the same mask, the same amount of pay, and the secrets each man unwittingly gives to me in the heat of the moment. Some are married, some have children. Some are successful to the outer world but failures to their own life. Some are insane. Some are rebels while others are pledged entirely to the Capitol. There were even a couple Peacekeepers.

Secrets are beautiful. Like money, but more valuable. So, so much more valuable. Manipulation, blackmail...ensured by secrets. And it's secrets that enable me power to gain what I am in desperation of.

Protection, perhaps even security. But only for a night. It's fleeting, gone with the echo of his footsteps each morning. And the silence is eternal. And the girl in the red lingerie, the whore who earns secrets just as well as money, she is always there. Every scene. Alone. Waiting for her next moment.

A girl named Blush.

A girl with no assets in a wolf-dog luxury district.

A prostitute.

A wretched figure.

Me.

* * *

The girl in the mirror is beautiful. Mysterious and seductive. Her long, glossy hair and raging, ice blue eyes, features high and sharp like nobility of the olden days in the history books. The few clothes she wears are in perfect condition. They were meant only for provocation, seduction, sex-appeal. Never meant to be casual or even romantic. She is always dressed for a show, because there is always someone willing to pay.

This girl is beautiful at first glance, but looking a little more closely, there's something off. A little too much makeup. Overgrown, chipped nails. Splitting lip. You can tell she's not as wealthy as she seems, as she _pretends to be._ She's nothing like what the rest of them are, and that's what makes her beautiful.

I wouldn't say I envy the other girls in this district. Rather, I'd say I detest them. Pain and suffering...tears, blood and sweat...all I have endured through these years. What I've done to get here. What I've done to even manage to look like them. Like other girls. Ironic, I suppose.

What is irony, one might ask. My response? This whole district is irony. The frontrunners, the wealthy and revered, so respected. The backbone, however; survivors, workers, benefiters, people providing for themselves or their family...they have nothing. Many of these fools, men and women who have never lifted a finger to support themselves, are considered the representation of District One. Yet, they seem to question why the other districts never take them seriously.

Not that that matters, anyway. Not anymore. I have my ways, they have theirs. District One citizens are just bags of skin filled with air, blood and petty ignorance. And secrets. Always secrets.

My father sits in the other room of our small, cramped abode, snoring loudly. He seems oblivious to everything now, ever since my mother's death three years ago. He isn't aware of what his daughter is doing, and he most likely would be blasé even if he did. No, all he does now is sleep, eat, and drink. My only family isn't even family now. But still, I find myself standing, walking to him and drawing the blanket over his weak shoulders, stooped low as always. He used to be different. But thinking of the past won't get me anywhere.

The egg hits the window the same time as every other morning. Even after walking home in the dawning hours to ensure they didn't see me. When I'm out there, they watch. When I'm in here...I'm allowed to be regretful for a few moments. I'm allowed to be someone other than the flashy showgirl with a penchant for rich men. But I'm still detatched...just as uninterested here as in every other situation. It would surprise another to look in my eyes the way I do. They are empty. Lifeless, soulless, emotionless...bored.

I slam open the door, and watch the mini-fools go running amuck across the yard, before regrouping and fleeing down the streets.

"The whore came out! The whore came out!" They scream.

I stare, apathetic.

* * *

Bliss is standing near the archway of the gate before the club when I walk past. She gives a half-wave, and then a come-hither motion. She is balancing her son against her chest. It is rare for us to see each other like this. Out of costume, so to speak. Why is it that even as people we gravitate toward the clubs to meet? It seems like the clubbing district is home. There is nothing else for either of us.

"Look what the cat dragged in." Bliss scoffs. "Reaping's only a few hours away, sweetie."

"I know." I reply. "I plan to make an impression."

"But of course," she purrs, leaning black against the brick. "After all, there's nothing us girls do better...according to Silk that is."

"And of course, what Silk says is truth." I mutter. "He's so loose-lipped it's a wonder he hasn't been stabbed yet. Ah, well, only awhile before it happens. Some rich businessman for sure."

"Can't be too sure." She says. "Maybe one of us'll do him in."

"That would be ironic." I say.

"More ironic than the rest of this?" She asks, before laughing, patting the baby's back to dull the awkward movement. "Honey, ain't nothing more ironic than this district."

"Funny," I say, eyebrows furrowing. "That's what I always say."

"You picked up the intellect from me." Bliss retorts. "I always knew you had it somewhere in there."

"More like you picked it up from me." This type of banter...it doesn't happen very often. But Bliss was kind, and there, and now she's the closest thing I have to a friend. A pseudo-older sister perhaps.

She gives me a once over. "What's your impression? The old lingerie under the jacket routine?"

"Anything else wouldn't have worked." I say. "Especially if I do get reaped."

"Doesn't matter." She says. "Someone would volunteer, like always."

"For the whore girl?" I ask, before turning around. "Doubtful."

* * *

_**Alexander Lepou, 18, District 1 Male**_

I am sitting outside, watching the rays of dawn break through the horizon to the darkness of the District One streets, empty save for a few people getting ready to set stage for the reaping. A spot of light lingers on my forehead, the first of the day, and I'm sure it's a sign. I take a long breath in, and for a moment, if feels as if all the air will leave me, nothing left behind in reality but an empty husk. Today is the day. Reaping day.

And I'm volunteering. I didn't get permission from the academy; they never had hope for me, didn't see the potential. But it's the last year. Who else has a sense of humor? Who else has my unparalleled skill with weapons (unless someone managed to break my record in the past day)? I may not be the strongest. I know they look for brutish force, violence, or a handsome face. I'm not the best off in any of those departments. But my chance is better. And my intuition is never wrong. This is my year. Mine. Mine.

"You do realize you've been talking to yourself out loud for the past ten minutes?" A voice sounds, and I look up from my position, unfolding my hands from behind my head.

"Etienne," I say. "Looking sharp."

"You'd better be joking," my brother mumbles, and I wiggle my eyebrows. The hag, no doubtedly, picked the atrocious blue-green suit that sits awkwardly on his too-tall frame.

"Does Mother want me to dress up too? I'd look quite dashing, I do believe. Ah, the beauty of pastels. On the contrary, dear, you look absolutely dreadful. To think if the girls were here-"

"Shut up already." Etienne groans. "She sent me out here to get you. I don't want to hear the Capitolian nonsense voice."

"Are you mocking my voice?" I feign insult.

"Of course not." He smirks. I grab his leg, pulling him down onto the grass, where he lands, rather ungracefully, in a patch of dirt. I crack up.

"Maybe now you'll be able to change out of that shitty wardrobe."

"Or maybe you'll have to change into one!" He retorts. "God, Mom'll be pissed."

"Since when isn't the hag pissed? I've never seen her smile once. God forbid the day I see her happy."

"When you become a victor." He says decisively.

"What?" I ask.

"She's smile when you become a victor. I bet you."

"What are we betting?" I ask. "Will you wear this suit again?"

"Hell no!" He snaps, shoving my hands away from him. "You're so weird."

"Says Mr. Pessimist." I retort.

A clang sounds from inside the upstairs window, along with a shrill shriek.

"Ding-dong, the witch is dead." I say. Another yell. "Well, almost."

"Wouldn't that be a relief?" He asks, and I can't discern whether that comment was supposed to be sarcastic or not.

"Boys? Where are you? Etienne, you had better not be getting that suit dirty! I swear on the life of the President-"

We stand hurriedly.

"The hag's gonna kill you." I say.

"It's your fault." He replies. "I'm innocent."

"I'm not?" I ask, widening my eyes and blinking rapidly.

"Never."

"Get in here now!" A voice yells.

I rush into the house after my brother, and slam the door behind me with a loud bang.

* * *

The square is a mess, people running amuck, to and from the steps of the Justice Building. I let out a sigh that my friend follows up with a comment about "being melodramatic". I pretty much ignore it. Nothing can ruin my mood today. Sure, I wasn't deemed the 'honor'. Sure I'm breaking all the rules- on Reaping Day, nonetheless. Sure my brother and the hag are going to bitch and my friends probably won't talk to me even when I am Victor, but...my mood will stay uplifted. It can't do anything otherwise.

"District One!" The escort chirps, walking on stage, her heels click-clacking against the marble steps. I can't remember her name- all I remember is her blue-tinged skin and those atrocious stiletto heels. Those wouldn't look good on anyone, especially not me. Well, then again, God only knows why I would ever wear heels. "Welcome, welcome. You know what time of year it is! Now, where shall we start? Ladies?" She walks over toward the girls' reaping ball.

"Blush DeMontford? Do we have a Blush DeMontford here?"

The crowd is shellshocked. Nobody steps forward, except- a girl, somewhere from the seventeens' section. She struts up to the stage, before turning to flash a smile at the crowd. Her eyes are cold, steeled even though a second glance leaves the impression of sadness, yet impervious to the jeers and shouts of "whore" being thrown out from the crowd. Slowly, she pulls the long trenchcoat she is wearing away, before flashing a stunning smile as she is left only in sleek red lingerie. The escort gasps.

"W-well," she tries to compose herself. "Boys next." Her overly-manicured hand reaches into the boys' reaping ball, and she reads, "Rouge Carlien?"

"I VOLUNTEER!" The shout seems to come from everywhere at once, and I realize it was me who said it after a few moments. Iridescent, the boy who was supposed to volunteer, and isn't nearly as girly as his name implies, stands there with his mouth open. I jog up to the steps, before glancing at the girl.

"What is your name?" The escort asks. "Name?"

"Alexander Lepou." I reply, winking at the girl, who stands there with her mouth agape. As the escort forces our hands together, I whisper into her ear.

"You'd be much prettier if you left your clothes _on." _

"And you'd be much better off if you hadn't volunteered." She replied. "But I think we can settle things."

"You and I both know that I'm more fabulous." I reply, earning a subtle tug of the lips from Blush.

"You wish, darling."

* * *

_"It is a man's own mind, not his enemy nor his foe, that lures him toward evil ways."_


	3. District Two Reapings

Ah, I'm back. I know you're all thinking 'finally!' Sorry, I've had a lot of schoolwork lately- big projects for National History day and my extended essay and a bunch of other stuff.

So before I start off the chapter, I have a little question for all my lovely readers; I am debating making a prequel to this story of the 37th games, the one featured in the first chapter. It would not involve any of the reaping/Capitol stuff, simply the games themselves. The reason I would be doing this is to give you all a picture of the gruesome deaths of each tribute, which would showcase the mutts for this arena and leave you with a foreshadowing of the set up of the arena itself. So, if you would, in a review or PM, simply leave a little 'yes' or 'no' at the top of your form about this idea.

Anyway, here we are with District 2! Enough rambling, Junhong. I know that's what you're all thinking. XD

Tributes today are courtesy of MadiHope24 (Jupiter Cass) and Infamouskal420 (Athena Slater). Thanks for the awesome tributes! As I'm sure you've all noticed, I'm still missing several, and I would appreciate it if you could ask anyone you know to check out submitting. It might encourage them if you add in that I'm not picky about reviews. XD

* * *

**District 2: A Conflict Before War**

* * *

**Athena Slater, 18, District 2 female**

I close my eyes for half a second, trying my best to maintain focus on the robotic dummy just out of my range. But the thoughts are running through my head, faster and faster, blinding me with their screams. I shake my head. This is not the time to _think._ This is the time to _attack. _I had made it to the end of today's allotment of dummies, and the final attack was racing toward me quickly, spear in hand. I steel my face, trying to redeem that ferocious gleam usually held in my eyes as I bow down, leaping out toward the dummy, with my hand fisted around the hilt of my near-sword-length knife. Anticipating my movements, the dummy swings to the right, an automated version of my own weapon appearing in it's hand. I don't know how District 2 even has the money for these types of training centers, but who cares? It's all about preparing for the thrill of the kill.

Losing points in training today doesn't matter; I've already been chosen for the honor of volunteering this year; but getting marks off would persuade my competitors to try and talk the trainers out of their decision. That can't happen- I am the perfect choice. My axe skills have set me directly behind the trainer on the watch list and my willpower has given me more strength than any weapon ever could. I'm positive I'm more motivated than any other tribute that will volunteer this year. Call me conceited, I don't care. I call myself prepared.

Returning my thoughts to the fight at hand, I jump forward and duck just as the blade of my enemy swings to hit the area my head would have been positioned at. I use a barrel roll, before shoving the point of my weapon through the dummy's back from behind. It dissipates into blocks, and I kick one of the little yellow squares away from me.

"Athena Slater. Your score for today is 9.3567. Deductions include lack of eye concentration and misjudged momentum. Thank you for participating."

Sighing, I pull myself to my feet again, before slinking over and slumping down on a cold metal bench just to the right of my training area. I reach for the towel sitting on the rack just behind my new seat, and hurriedly brush off my face. The water next to me is too appealing to pass up, and I soon find myself drinking nearly half the bottle.

I quickly stand up again, hauling the bag filled with my things over my shoulder. The trainer near the door sends me off with a nod, despite my having filled the slot as the volunteer for the year. No 'congratulations' or 'good work' or even 'good luck's are passed to me by anyone. I pull my bag onto my back fully, shove open the glass door, and walk out into the empty street.

Father should be proud. But me, I don't know what to feel.

* * *

I know I shouldn't be here. The dust from the mines is in my windpipe, threatening to suffocate me, but I've been in worse. I sit on the rocky ground, staring straight at the exit tunnel. And there he is. Styx.

He takes a minute, stopping, glancing at me oddly, before calling out my name and hastening his steps across the barren ground toward me. I pull myself to my feet shakily despite my usual grace, and wrap my arms around him tightly. He smells like dust and rock, but I don't care. I bury my face in his neck and breathe in deeply.

"I missed you."

"You too, baby sister." He replies, patting my head. "Walk with me?"

"Of course." I straighten myself up, and the two of us walk next to each other, feet falling into similar strides across the black ground. "How's Cass?" I ask him, and he chuckles.

"Good as she can be, I suppose. Raising a child is tough in these times. Despite how much we need it...when he gets older, I'm never going to let him volunteer."

I nod at this decision. "I wouldn't let him either." I pause. "He's tearing me apart, Styx. He's killing me, forcing me into this."

"You'll win." He says softly. "But for yourself. Not for that man."

"Never." I say, honestly. "Never for him. Not after what he did to you." I feel tears welling up in my eyes.

"Hey, hey, Athena." Styx says. "You'll be okay."

"They picked me, Styx. But I...I don't know if I can do it. I'm prepared, yes. I'm confident, yes, but...what if it happens? What if I never come back?"

"Don't say that." He turns to face me, grasping my shoulders. "Don't say that, Athena. You're the strongest person I know. You put up with that man everyday. If anyone can win, it's you."

"I just don't know anymore..." I confide. "I don't know what I'm doing. Why can't I just come live with you?"

He chuckles. "Because you made this decision. The weight of the district is on you now, kiddo." He pauses. "But if you choose otherwise...you've always got a home with us."

"I know." I say. "I know."

* * *

I return home steeled and emotionless, just as every other day. My father drains all the energy from my body. He crushes my spirit and my desires. I listen to him drone on about the reaping tomorrow, stony and harsh, before excusing myself to my room. I can't cry. I can't smile. I can't even speak. All I want is to get away from him.

All I want is to get home in a few weeks. All I want is to be remembered. All I want is my brother to be proud of me. I don't care what that man thinks; I'll never be like him, even if I come back. I'll never be like him.

I shake my head as I flop down on my bed.

I don't want to be like my father...but nowadays...it seems as though I'm becoming more and more akin to him. And if Styx wasn't there...

I shudder.

I would already be as sullen and gruff and apathetic as my father.

And as much as I hate to believe it...that may be my fate if I come home.

Perhaps it is better to die in the arena than to live a life full of stern solitude.

* * *

**Jupiter Cass, 17, District 2 male**

I wake up with a grimace. I am momentarily dazed, unnerved by the present warmth of another person beside me. It's not too long, though, before my mind snaps back to reality, and I glance down at Lyra, before very carefully peeling away the sheets, standing to my feet, pulling on the clothes discarded beside the bed, and walking toward the door. The normally loud and bustling, crowded house of our beloved Mayor is presently empty, and I have no trouble slipping through the white, overly decorated hallways, feet echoing softly with every step across the marble floor.

In the back of my mind, there's a nagging feeling, something telling me I should have waited for Lyra to wake up, something telling me how I could have played my next card against the Mayor, but I ignore it, steeling my face. There's no time for this kind of...petty thinking. It's useless, in the scheme of things.

I hear the door creak open beside me, and upon second glance, realize it is simply being blown by the wind outside. The hinges are loose, almost as if someone had attempted to break in. I smirk. Good luck to anyone that did- but I got here first. And my games are better than simple theft.

I am halfway tempted to take the back route through the alley to my own home, just in the thought that I might be recognized by someone on the streets between here and my home. As popular as I'm seemingly becoming, it wouldn't be a shock. But it wouldn't be welcome, either.

I choose the streets, following the common route through the center of the city, making sure to put that oh-so-dazzling grin on my face as I brush through crowds. I briefly wonder why it is so busy, but once again, that's not really important. What's important is getting to the Training Center before late morning.

And then I hear a voice. "Yo! Jupiter!" A rather subtly built guy answering to the name Roar Lyle runs over in my direction, slap-happy psychotic grin fixed on his face and waving hand.

"Roar," I greet him. "Man. What's up? Been a few days." I pause. "And you took care of...?"

"Heh, no problem, J. I've got your back on these things." He punches my arm. "Today's the big day, right?"

"Big day?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah! It's your year, right?"

"Today is...reaping day?" I ask. When did this happen?

"Fuck me if it isn't." Roar replies.

"I'd rather not." I say, turning around toward the square. The crowds suddenly make sense. And then... "Well, I'm going to make a horrible first impression. I half expect my mother not to let me in the house after I left last night."

"No way, J. Your mother's crazy for you. Even if you kill someone, she wouldn't care."

"And I have." I remind him. "You're entirely right." I laugh. "Lyra was good last night."

"You any closer to getting the man?"

"What?" I question.

"It's entirely obvious that you're using her, Jupiter. Well, to us people down in the sewers."

I snort. "You're smarter than I give you credit for."

"Obviously."

I turn around to the square again. "Should probably run. Applaud when I volunteer, okay?"

"Sure thing, J. Sure thing."

* * *

The first thing I notice is that everyone- literally everyone- is dressed nicely, except for me. The second thing I notice is that Lyra is openly glaring at me from the 16 females' section. I almost laugh at that. Is it because I left her this morning? I send her a wave in response, and her face breaks out into a smile again. Princess can't stay angry for too long.

People cluster near me. I've heard my grin has that quality to it; the quality that just makes people want to tell me things. It's always been to my advantage. Ever since I was a child I've been smiling. Even then, it had the same effect. And when I found that people would talk to me, when I found that they were willing to tell me things, share things with me that they had with nobody else...I enjoyed that feeling. So I used my wit, my charm, my intelligence, and now look where I ended up. Half this district is in awe of me- my skills in training, my charming persona. All false. But they never needed to know that. It's best to let people believe what they want. Everything reveals itself in the end, anyway.

Like when I killed that kid last year.

Training is the one place where I'm able to let loose from my persona. I'm ruthless. Trained. Deadly. And that's why they love me. Even though I'm a murderer. Maybe I should feel bad that I killed the kid, but hey- it's practice. And practice with the real thing is always better than practice with dummies. Something that can breathe and bleed and squirm under your blade...

The escort, Katayun, a buxom blonde woman with dresses the size of hovercrafts and ugly flowers always pinned in her hair, walks up and says into the microphone, "District Two! How are we today?" The crowd roars. "Wonderful, wonderful. Well, as you know, it's that time of year again."

She hops over to the girls' reaping ball, and the name doesn't even slip though her lips before someone shouts out the two awaited words.

"I volunteer!"

A girl, long black hair falling in waves behind her back, and piercingly cold blue eyes, walks forward from the crowd gracefully, marching up the steps to the stage, and saying clearly, "Athena Slater. That's my name."

And just like before, the escort doesn't even begin to read the name when I call out my own volunteer.

I stride forward, long steps, forceful, and try to make my grin as real as possible when I walk to her. I clap Athena on the back as I walk past her, winking for the camera.

"What's your name, young man?" Katayun asks, grabbing my shoulder.

"Jupiter Cass. Remember it."

"I'm sure we will. District Two! Athena Slater and Jupiter Cass! Shake hands, you two, don't be shy."

I grasp Athena's calloused hand in my own, and she stares forward blankly for a few moments, before saying sharply, "I'm not blind. I won't turn my back to you for a minute. After all, one of us has to die."

"Sure." I say, still grinning.

Mentally, I say,_ I will break you._

* * *

_"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact between two chemical substances; if there is any reaction, both are to be transformed."_


	4. District Three Reapings

Okay, back again, sorry for the late update, there's been a lot going on this month.

So yeah, these are the last reapings. I'm trying to work through to the games as quickly as I can. 1-3 reapings. 4-7 train rides. 8-9 chariots and day before training. Mixed POVs for training. 10-11 for interview night and training scores. 12 for night before the games. So we'll see how this works. I did this setup on my first couple SYOTs (deleted in the Purge) and it worked out better for me. We'll get plenty of face time in the games and even through the other tributes eyes, so don't worry. Mentions to most everyone I have so far are seen in these next few chapters.

That aside, I NEED MORE MALE TRIBUTES. Please, as much as I love the girls, I don't want to have a girl-oriented Hunger Games. I want a mix. So if anyone reading wants to submit a male tribute to me, please do it. I don't care if you already have tributes involved. It's fine, whatever.

Also, I'll have the games for the 37th going up in their separate story on my profile, so please watch for that.

District 3 is brought to you by infamouskal420 (Bug Lumen) and ShayCandyBar714 (Cable Barric). Thanks for the tributes, and please leave me some feedback.

* * *

**District 3: Like Moths to a Flame**

* * *

**Cable Barric, District 3 female**

I see a girl, dark brown hair and eyes with darkened circles beneath them in her reflection. I see a frustratingly annoying girl whom nobody cares about in her shadow. I see countless days passing in her footsteps. I see agony underneath her skin.

I see a girl that doesn't matter.

* * *

I've always wondered why I was so different. People find me to be a nuisance. They shrug me off like an animal, squash me with words like a bug. I've never fit in, except for appearance. I could pass for a bystander. I'm perfectly average from the outside. But then there's the inside. My thoughts and words and general persona. Nobody likes it.

I'm shocked that I'm sitting here now, but I'm crying, and I can't stop. Words flow out of my mouth fast as a river, and I just can't stop the flood of tears leaving my eyes.

And all they can do is stare at me.

I'm not someone memorable; I already know that they could care less, and it hurts so much. It hurts that nobody can ever see me for what I am underneath the rambling words. I'm not worth it, anyway. I've got less worth than anything in this district.

It doesn't shock me, afterward, when I find myself alone with only my thoughts and inner demons. Alone. Always so alone.

Another day passes.

* * *

Every morning, I jump out of bed, bright and ready to face reality. At night, I slink off and curl up beneath a threaded blanket, tucking my knees to my chest and shutting my eyes as I try not to think about what the day held, or what the next day will bring. I've always felt so lonely.

My voice is loud, and sometimes I want to scream, but who would listen? Nobody listens anyway. Why would a tone change anything?

I just wish I knew what was wrong with me. My parents, although they try not to say anything, have admitted I've always been a little 'off' in the way I do things. Socially awkward, maybe. A bit too loud, a bit too wild, a bit too obnoxious.

I shake my head, trying to let go of the thoughts as I bury my face in the book next to my head on the edge of the bed. It's an older one, one from the Dark Days, supposedly. I'm not supposed to have it, obviously, but it's one of the most precious things I own.

There's not much in my life anymore. It feels like I live in a closed off little world, all by myself.

Which is why tomorrow doesn't matter to me.

If I get reaped, I'm going to die. No other options. With only a four point two percent chance of making it back, well, the odds are impossible. And District Three is one of the few districts to have only two victors. Considering myself, well, I'm bright- but I'm not the brightest.

I can imagine what would happen if I got reaped. On the train I'd start going on to my district partner. "Hi, I'm Cable, I've never lived with anyone before, please don't steal my things- you're not a kleptomaniac, right?- I also like books, do you like books? How did you feel about getting reaped? What do you think the Capitol is like? I've never even imagined this possibility. Yeah, I'm dead, and I'll just shut up now, okay?"

Granted, that's not going to happen. I hope.

At least it would lighten the mood?

I hear some quiet talking outside the door of the cramped bedroom I'm in. My mother. She sounds worried about things- I know I've taken too much tesserae to handle- but she shouldn't worry. I mean, it's not like getting killed would be very tragic, right? I'd make it memorable.

But I'm not a memorable person. I'll fade into the background like everyone else.

If I don't get reaped, nothing will change. To be honest, there's a tiny part of me that wants to go into the games- to prove to others that I can be more than they make me out to be. But if nothing happens, then I'll just sit in this room and cry. Go to school and be laughed at. Ramble on awkwardly to my classmates and parents. And stay friendless. I'm always friendless.

Something's going to change. And if the change I want comes from getting reaped, well, then I guess I'll just have to deal with the consequence.

* * *

**Bug Lumen, District 3 Male**

_It's cold out. Nighttime, most likely. The sky is grey, distant. There's no sound anywhere. Nothing to be seen._

_And then there is. _

_His fists are slamming into the too-bloodied face of another man, red splatters covering the ground near his head as punch after punch is landed on him. A kick to his gut, shards of a broken bottle on the ground beside him. Inside a window above the street, a man yells at a woman. Behind the curtains, you can see the outline of a shadow, one slapping the other in the face, before shoving them to the floor. Rats scurry out from an alleyway, the smell of poison lingering. Inside is a woman's twisted, dark form crumpled on the ground. She jumped, obviously._

_The streets are crowded now, clustered with the ever flowing wave of black and white faceless images. People rushing past to the factories or to their homes. Then, they all turn in one direction in walk away._

_To the Justice Building._

_Because that's today, isn't it? It's today..._

My head snaps forward as a blaring ringing noise hits my ears. I recoil, bumping my forehead into the slanted ceiling right above my mattress, pressing a hand to it as I stumble forward onto the cold, dirtied floor.

I can hear the chattering outside the window of our run-down residence. It's later than morning now. Must be around mid-noon if I'm processing correctly.

Reaping Day.

I shake my head. It's not like it matters, anyway. Each year, everybody worries about what might happen if they get reaped. Not me. My life holds no meaning anymore.

People say I've been desensitized. I don't see that. I look at myself as a realist, nothing more. There is no hope in this world. It's all fogs mixed with grey. Grey. Always grey.

I don't bother looking in the mirror after I'm dressed- the cracks make it impossible to see anything in the first place. And there's really no point, either. What's the point of looking when the person you see has no face?

No face, no heart, no brain, no soul.

I read in a book somewhere about the silent man. Stiches over his eyelids and mouth, plugged nose and ears. He sees nothing, speaks nothing, smells nothing and hears nothing. He relies on touch alone. That's like me. I rely on feel. If I didn't feel, then I wouldn't know. I wouldn't understand.

Life. What is life anyway? It's illogical, irrational, overrated and completely incomprehensible. There is no meaning behind life. Death, for that matter, has no meaning either.

I suppose that's why I'm not worried.

* * *

The square is crowded, but I don't pay attention to any of the forms. Everyone carries an aura of darkness today. Nobody looks forward to this. I don't either, but I certainly don't dread it like most people here do.

And then I hear a voice. An aura of yellow in the midst of black.

Moe practically grabs me and hauls me over to our section as soon as he spots me.

"Reaping Day again, Bug, dearest."

"That it is." I answer, monotonously. "Surprised you didn't vandalize the stage, given your record."

"I did that two years ago. Now I've moved on to better feats." He pauses. "Alori Madison's house."

That sparks my interest. "You went to the _Victor's Village_?"

"No other place was suited to my talents anymore." He pauses. "They killed people. I think they can stand a little art now and then, don't you?"

"I suppose." A pause. "I hear there's a different freak this year."

"Freak one, freak two. They're all the same in the Capitol."

And just as he says that, speak of the devil, there's a tall- very tall- man, with long hair that's colored partway orange, mixed with black that falls almost to his feet. His face is decorated with white paint.

"Pasty-face." Moe says. "But it's a guy, that's a bit different."

"ALRIGHT." The man yells, effectively silencing the crowd. "District Three, back again. I've always found the Dark Days to be a little dull, so I won't be showing the video." A few hushed gasps sound at this. "And, to switch it up even more, we'll do the gentlemen first."

His shoes, tips points upward, move in fast steps toward the male's reaping ball.

"Bug Lumen? Is there a Bug Lumen here?"

Moe gives me a little tap.

I move with no hesitation, until I'm standing next to the escort and Victors, eyes staring blankly at the crowd before me.

"Well, Bug, let's see which lovely lady will be accompanying you, shall we?" The escort walks to the female reaping ball with just as much haste- it seems to me he just wants to get out of here- and draws a name. "Cable Barric?"

I know the girl. She's a bit younger than me, and pretty average looking, but I'm positive I know her. With a mouth like hers it's hard not to notice sometimes.

She's smiling as she walks up, and a tiny laugh even leaves her throat, but when her eyes meet mine I can see her fear. I shake her hand before the escort even asks us to. It's not for me, but more for her need for support right now. I'm not sure how she's feeling- mixed aura coming off of her. I can tell she wants to be careless about this, but she's being illogical. If she's scared, she should show it.

"Bug, right?" She asks. "I think I recognized your name. We've met before, right. Are you nervous? I can't believe I got reaped, I'm sure you can't either, it's just not really...feasible, I guess." She gives a halfhearted smile as the escort pats our backs, nudging us toward the train.

"We don't have all day, kids, so I'd hurry along."

* * *

_"More matches are lost from carelessness at the beginning than any other cause."_


	5. District Four Train Rides

This is an incredibly quick update. Unfortunately, I won't be making updates this quickly very often. I've got so much with school that it's a miracle I finished all my homework this weekend. So, yeah, not much to be said here.

That being said, if anyone wants to submit some mentors to me, I'd like to have some. I need mentors for 5, 7, 10, 11 and 12. So if you'd like to fill any of those spots, please message me and I'll send you the mentor form. Also, depending on the detail of the mentor, they may get their own oneshot.

Okay, so District 4 is train rides. TRAIN RIDES, NOT REAPINGS. Just a reminder.

District 4 is brought to you by Aileen's Feather (Michelle Dolohov) and SPACE MAN OH SPACE MAN (Wolfgang Shivelbush). Thanks for submitting, and I hope I do your tributes justice. They were some of the more... interesting ones I received. I'm sorry if I don't portray them exactly as you wished. Please feel free to criticize and leave feedback, as I don't really feel this chapter does them justice.

* * *

**District 4 Train Rides: Farcical and Tenable**

* * *

**Michelle Dolohov, District 4 Female**

* * *

So...this is what getting reaped feels like. Hm. Well, it's not as...harsh...as I believed. There's something...subtly honest in the event, I guess. And besides, my district partner seems like the type it'll be easy to push buttons with. I can see how strained he is, even now, looking at him on the other side of the car, talking with our mentor.

Our latest mentor is a girl named Cirrepathes, also called Circe, who won the thirty-seventh games last year. (Well, duh, it's last year...I just...whatever.) She's the type that everyone seems scared of. I have a feeling that she's just got a temper. And it's not like she can offer any helpful or _good_ advice anyway. Besides, I already know what I'm doing. Take a few risks, make a few good plans and hope it all works out. There's not much else to be said.

Just to get this out there, I'm not a Career. By any means. Even though I'm from Four, I'll admit it, I don't have much in the way of weapons expertise and I wouldn't kill for fun. That doesn't put off the fact that this entire scenario is funny to me. I mean, a Career district girl reaped? _Reaped_? And of all people it was me.

I have to contain my laughter or go to hell.

Well, honestly, sitting here's getting a little boring. It doesn't seem like anybody's even noted my presence yet.

"HELLO?!" I yell, loudly, standing. The mentors and my district partner...what's his name? Wolston or something? Yeah, definitely Wolston. I give a little wave to them, before turning and walking off down the hall.

I think I'll sleep for awhile.

* * *

The first thing I note is there's a knock on the door of my room.

I groan, rolling over onto my side, but suddenly feel myself falling. My head hits the floor with a bang, and my groaning increases. The door opens.

"Michelle, right?" A voice asks. The mentor. Damn. "We're watching recaps. You shouldn't miss it."

I stand, throwing the blankets off of me, not even caring that they're now in a crumpled heap on the floor. "Yeah? Well, I don't think it really matters_ that_ much. I mean, what do I get out of it? A few names."

"Don't you want to see who your probable allies are?"

"Allies? Sorry, I'm not a Career, and I don't like people." I shove past her, grinning. She shakes her head, and I growl. "Oh, and also, the rules of waking me up: shut the hell up, get out of my way, and don't ask me any questions. You just crossed all the lines."

"Do you really think it's a good idea to speak to your _mentor_ like this? I am your key to sponsors, which could mean life or death. Right now, I don't like you. You know what that means?" Circe asks.

I shake her off with a smile. "I was just kidding. Of course I'll watch them with you. You really think I was that rude?"

She gapes for a few seconds. "You- what?"

"I admit, though, it's fun seeing you get all riled up. I thought you would slap me for a second. That would have been fun."

"You _like_ getting hit?"

"The build up to it is pretty thrilling." I admit, before grabbing her arm.

"What are you doing?"

"You're the one who said we should go watch the reapings, right? So that's what we're doing."

* * *

There's not too much in the way of good allies. Obviously, the Careers are out, and all of them except for the girl from One look like they could rip me in half. I wouldn't mind starting a conversation, though. Maybe I could fake my way into the pack? Actually, that probably means my imminent death. So...that's out. I'm a thrill seeker, not a suicidal.

The pair from Three don't look like much, outside of the boy's blank stare and the girl's super-fast hyperactive talking. She looks like she wanted to cry, though. So probably not a great ally.

Then there's us. So his name's Wolfgang? Oh.

I don't really think much can be said about my reaping. The only notable thing about me was my smirk. But I have plenty of time to leave an impression later. And judging from the way Circe's mouth still is gaping at me, I think I'm already working through that pretty well.

I don't really notice the rest of the reapings. I'm too busy thinking about how my stomach just won't shut up, especially when there's all that Capitolian food on the table behind us. I doubt anyone would care if I left anyway. I stand up, stretch, and make an exaggerated yawn.

"I'm famished. Can we eat?"

"Yes." says Wolfgang. "The competition this year seems to be risible anyway." I grin.

"Then we're in agreement. Reapings are over, nothing else to see there."

* * *

**Wolfgang Shivelbush, District 4 Male**

* * *

There is nothing but silence as we take our seats at the table. Michelle immediately goes to work on the food, followed shortly by our mentors, who, speaking of, seem to be completely useless.

"So." Michelle says. "Isn't this cozy? Maybe we should start offering some advice?" She looks pointedly at Cirrepathes.

I don't really focus on what the woman has to say. It is of little importance to me. My strategies have already been predetermined, and I plan to follow through on them. My eyes drift to the window behind our escort- some silly woman with purple hair and eyes, named Carminilia if I remember correctly, although her name doesn't particularly matter, as I won't be conversing with her.

Outside, I can see the tall lights illuminating the factories of District Three, the white cemented walls, peeling and cracked. Crumbled buildings are on the outskirts of the district, barely seen as we fly past.

Michelle is still talking and I half wonder if she has a brain connected to her mouth or not. She doesn't seem particularly bright, nor strong, and I personally, wouldn't mind seeing her killed. For all I know, it could be me. Perhaps it would be better if it was me than another.

I excuse myself early, not one for making small talk with anyone, including our useless mentors. They may have won the games, but Yanick only won by hiding the entire time, and Cirrepathes made a meager two kills. Also, the arguing is a good indication that they aren't exactly blessed with knowledge. Skill possibly, but not knowledge.

It's coming to the end of a long day.

I should make it known, not now but at the right time, that I will not be joining the commonplace Career alliance. Faking, yes, but not actually accepting. Fate has other plans in store for me. I'm not one to throw my lot in with several brutes who trained to kill for fun. They don't see the craftsmenship of fighting, the finesse, skill or beauty.

Fighting is art. I would know, having been raised in fighting.

I've been expected to volunteer for years now. Carrying on the name of the Shivelbush clan is an honor, really. Yet even my family, prestigious and honorable, does not understand my musings on the art of battle. It is passion, much like desires of a relationship. For me, running my hands over the curve of a blade is like the connection between human flesh. It is beauty, yet it is so differently seen. Blood is paint on a desolate white canvas.

In honesty, I have always known that fighting in the games would be my purpose.

Yet there's a part of me that feels there is something else that I have not seen...something missing, per se. A part of me feels lost.

* * *

The walls of the room are white, the color of purity, so ironic in such a distant way. For that matter, practically everything in this room is white, mixed with details of light blue here and there. I lie backward, propping my neck against the headboard and staring at the door.

I often wondered what it would be like in this position, the position which I was destined to have in my eighteenth year, yet I never expected this.

It's so quiet here, peaceful yet solemn. There is a dark light filtering through the curtains of the singular window in the cabin. It is nighttime, but I figure it is drawing nearer to dawn.

I have never been one to ponder my thoughts for such an extended time, but tonight is a night where one cannot help but ponder, I suppose. The whispering of the silence is so much louder than actual words.

My fingers tap against the mattress. A resounding strumming noise seems to blossom at the touch, yet I pay it no mind. It is a welcome comfort in all the thoughts. It is external, something to focus on that is actually heard. The beat of my hand against the covers in the dark is almost reminiscent of something...or someone.

Ferris was the one friend I had in Four, and to say we were opposites could not be more of an understatement. Ferris was never one to be involved in the politics of the Games, the politics of honor for the clan. He was always a sort of light. I had never seen him to be unrelaxed before, whereas I felt uneasy in most any situation. Out of place, perhaps. There were times when I wasn't training that I would walk down to the docks by the large river, and I would see him, strumming a beat on the rocks with a stick. I do believe that is where we first met.

There are many reasons for me to fight for return. Honor, above all...but behind that...I feel as though I would like to come home for Ferris more than anything. And perhaps for my own measures. Now, looking back, I feel I have yet to live.

What is my purpose?

Perhaps I shall find it in the Arena. Perhaps it will save me.

Or perhaps after I learn it, I should like to stay there forever.

* * *

_"Be courteous to all, but intimate with few, and let those few be well tried before you give them your confidence."_


End file.
